And Everything You Love Will Burn Up in the Light
by Jessica L. Pearson
Summary: after 7.18 - Henry dies and Sofia lives.  Teddy recovers over time.


Teddy Altman (she supposes it may technically be viewed as Burton) closes the door to Henry Burton's room with a bit of reluctance. Her hesitance is because she finds him endearing, almost the kind that would put any man to shame, and she thinks that maybe there's something that changes in a man when he knows he's dying. Something that makes it easier to live without regret and to do anything he can just to hold on for just a little bit longer.

It is unconventional though, her 'relationship' with Henry - it is both pleasing and challenging. She married him not because it was convenient for her, but because it was convenient for him. She married him not so that he could be her husband, but so that he could continue to live. And, to be quite honest, it is increasingly difficult to concentrate with him constantly in her workplace being charming and, to an extent, elusive.

Her day, however, has been packed with more than just avoiding patient husbands and has resulted in saving the lives of people she is particularly close to. She hasn't seen Arizona much since Callie was rushed in, mostly everyone has been set on saving the Latina's life, but she at least has the good sense to stop by and check on Callie, Arizona, maybe even the baby (just like everyone else, she's sure).

She doesn't know much, but she does know that she has to get out Seattle Grace Mercy West.

Her hand touches the cold metal of the door handle as she peeks in the blinds of Callie's room to be sure she isn't interrupting anything. She pushes the door open, sneaks in because she doesn't want to disturb the patient. She clutches the strap of her bag on her shoulder; her scrubs discarded in her locker a few minutes ago - anything to distract her from thinking.

"Hey," Arizona greets in a whisper.

She gets the hint, opts to keep her voice quiet so she doesn't disturb the sleeping. "How is she?"

"She's good - woke up for about half an hour. Just fell back asleep," Arizona answers. She watches Arizona lean forward in her chair to gaze over Callie's face and for just a moment, she feels jealous of what they have, of how it feels to truly love someone and feel that love returned. Arizona's eyes shift back to her as she leans back in her dark blue scrubs, pursing her lips while she blinks to get the tears out of the corners of them. "She said yes, said that she'd marry me."

"Congratulations," Teddy says, practically coughing up the words from deep within her. She forces a smile as she realizes just how tired Arizona looks and she knows she has to do something to distract herself. If she turns around and walks out of there, she isn't sure she'll make it home without stopping by his room to see him. She swallows, "Hey, why don't you go home? Get a shower? Anything."

"Can't get the stitches wet yet," Arizona explains, "but Mark's been in the NICU sitting with the baby since she came out. Try to get him home for a shower, maybe a little sleep. He hasn't left her side in 2 days. You could do that for me."

She turns on her heel to leave, busy herself with what could be a checklist of things for her to do before she gets so exhausted that she can barely stand on her own two feet. Anything to keep her from going back into Henry's room. She doesn't need to think about his vitals, his organs, whether his diabetes is being treated properly because she isn't falling for him - there is nothing between them.

"Hey," Arizona stops her before she can get all of the way out of the room; she turns to look at her friend, slight smile on her face - "Can you make sure he gets home? Otherwise he won't leave her side."

She sees him through the glass of the NICU, tiredly staring down at his little girl with his scrubs covered by a pink gown. She idles in the doorway for a moment before she gets the attention of a nurse, asking her to get Mark so she can speak to him. He glances at her over his shoulder and she briefly feels bad for making him take his eyes off of her.

"Why don't you go home? Get a shower," she suggests once he's standing beside her. He glances over his shoulder at the incubator, the machines reporting the baby's every breath, every beat, and every organ movement. She sees the hesitation on his face, wonders if Arizona knew how difficult the task was going to be when she asked her to do it. She lifts her hand, lightly touches his chin and guides his eyes back to hers. "Clean up a little bit."

"I can't leave her," he begrudgingly replies. She feels his eyes searching hers like he's looking for answers and she knows she doesn't have any. She lightly touches his elbow, guiding him towards the door with a gentle pull. "I'd hate to leave her alone."

"She won't be. She'll be well taken care of. You won't be gone long," she insists quietly.

She sees him lightly nod his head in agreement and pull the gown from his body, revealing his scrubs to be clean yet worn. She watches as he seems to motion at Alex to watch the baby a bit more carefully and he just nods in understanding. She can feel him behind her, following her lead to the attending locker room so he can change into his street clothes.

She briefly thinks about Henry, wondering if he's sleeping or just watching boring late night television on the limited hospital television.

Mark comes out a few minutes later in a pair of dark blue jeans and his leather jacket, she can't tell the shirt that he has on underneath the leather, but she's thoroughly distracted by what he has on. She knows it's a sensitive situation, the whole day is, but she'll take just about anything that will take her mind off of Henry. She isn't really in love with him and she isn't going to be.

"I didn't think it would be this complicated," he admits when he steps onto the elevator beside her.

"Mark," she says, glances at him and nearly smirks, "nothing with you is less than complicated."

"It's starting to feel that way," he replies. She thinks of all of the heartache he must feel, hopes he doesn't have to feel anymore because there isn't anything like watching your family nearly pass you by. He tilts his head a little to watch the numbers change, shoves his hands into his pockets like he's about to have trouble keeping them to himself. "Callie and Arizona are getting married. That'll be nice."

"Yeah," she agrees. The elevator dings and the door slides open, breaking the brief silence so that they can step out and walk across the street to his apartment. To be honest, she remembers it well, his apartment; the way it always smelled of his cologne and cleanliness, how the door was never locked when he was home, and that she could see in the window from the street if a light was on. "Everything's going to be okay."

"Whatever it is, it's cruel," he mutters. He pushes the building door open for her to walk through and she can feel the heat rush out of the building, surrounding her. She welcomes the temperature change and feels him hot on her heels as they climb the stairs. "I always knew watching a child hurt was difficult, I mean, from when I was an intern it never made sense how God could let something so small feel such pain."

He slides his key into the lock and she hears the metal crunch together, a quick click when he turns the key and pops open the door almost like there's no order to the motion.

"I remember when we were younger Addison would lose a patient and it would nearly kill her, muttering something about it taking an act of God to save the child but she tried like hell. It never really made sense to me, didn't hurt me like it did her, and I get why now, because her heart is so big. Poor girl used to be so naive," he rambles. She has to grab him by the sleeve to drag him inside, guiding his every move like he can't think straight enough to even get into the bedroom. She pushes a hair behind her ear, wonders if he's even noticed that it's her who is there or if he's just on autopilot. "She aborted our baby though. I don't hate her, I get why she did it, but I feel like I missed out. I never really knew it was something that I wanted until it was too late."

She feels him following her like he's just thankful that there's someone who will listen. She has to stop in the middle of his bedroom, get him to screw his head back on and get a hold of himself before he can really do anything else. She thinks maybe if she leaves him in the room alone for a moment he'll have to stop talking and put it all back into perspective.

She briefly thinks that Henry might laugh at the philosophical speak regardless of how not funny the situation truly is.

"Boys make these plans of what they want their lives to be, map it out precisely how they want it, but when they become men it becomes a whole different story. It's all about the conquest," he rambles. She pushes him onto the bed and goes into the bathroom to start the shower for him, reaching her hand in and checking the temperature. He keeps talking, a bit louder so she can hear him through the thick walls. "They say fuck the plans and start tally marking their headboard like they don't need a path anymore and straying isn't frowned upon. I figured out what I wanted too late in life and here it is, in my grasp but it's slipping right through my fingers."

She can see his outline in the darkness, the way he's slumped over with his head practically in his hands. She feels bad, a quality that her mother taught her years ago, and crouches down in front of him. When she puts her hands on his knees to remind him of her presence, a tear seems to fall from his cheek and splash onto her hand.

Her palm leaves his knee, fingertips fleeing his thigh to lift his chin from his chest, and the pads of her fingers feel the coldness of his skin at his neck. Her thumb pushes upward, guides his eyes to hers so she can wipe the tears from his cheeks. The tearstains glimmer in the light and the thin layer of held back tears glossed his eyes, threatening to spill over the brim of his eyelids.

She feels his eyes boring into hers, burning holes into the back of her head as she feels his hands shake in their ascension to her blonde curls. She sees the ends of her hair wrap around his fingers as his fleshy hands divulge into her tresses, and she feels the tips of his appendages brush the hair from her forehead. He leans forward, taps his lips against hers in a silent plea.

She feels her lips move against his in effort to prove to herself that Henry doesn't really mean a thing, an attempt to convince herself that she isn't really falling for him. His lips part hers, his tongue ramming into her mouth as his fingers grasp her hair. Her fingers find the lapels of his leather jacket, pulling at the material until she can manage to push it down his arms.

His jacket falls from his shoulders, leather hits the material of the sheets with a thud and then fades into the silence. She can feel the heat of his fingertips skate against her skin and seep through the material of her low cut sweater, create a trail of fire that travels from her face to her waist as he unzips her jacket. Her fingers grasp at the cashmere of his black sweater, fingertips tingling at the soft feel of the material as her tongue twists against his.

She hears a brief whine escape from his lips as her jacket falls to the floor, his rough fingertips tracing the outline of her neckline. She nearly shudders as his nails gently scrape against her skin and his teeth scratch at her bottom lip when he lightly bites down. She pushes into him, his body slumping against hers when she does.

His fingers flutter down her neck, between her breasts, barely skimming the material at her stomach before tugging at the hem of her sweater so he can get it over her head. His lips part from hers and she can feel his breath echo against her skin, etching out a pattern as he absently licks his lips and leaves a dab of moisture at the hollows of her neck. Her eyes roll when his fingers drag down her cleavage, tickling her skin on his quest to unbutton her jeans.

She lets him pop the button, slide her jeans down her hips until they collide with the floor and she's left in her black bra and panties. His teeth nip at her skin just below her boob, leaving a mark that she's sure will outline his teeth and possible still be there tomorrow. Her fingers grasp at his neck, entwining at his nape when she steps out of her jeans and straddles him.

She feels his arms slide around her waist, his fingers press into the small of her back as he lifts his head to trace her features. He groans when she grinds her hips against his as she leans down to meet him halfway, tilting her head and matching his lips. She slides her palms down his chest, her fingers wrestling together to unzip his jeans; she releases the constriction on his cock when her fingers tug at the button.

He pushes his hand up her spine, stilling at the center of her back where her bra is hooked and her breasts suddenly spill into the wind. She feels him put his hand between them, his fingers brushing her arm and sliding down to tap against her fingers before he divulges his hand between her legs. She moans into his mouth as he pushes her panties to the side, tugging enough to feel the waistband fall further from her hips, and he smoothes his finger over her opening causing her to squirm.

He mutters incoherent words as he suddenly flips her over onto her back, fingers pressing into her back and arching her upward as he positions them further up the bed.

Her head rolls back as his lips fall into the crook of her neck, tongue sliding against her skin as his finger dips into her. She moans, releases a breath as she arches up into his chest. She feels the material of his shirt, tugs at it to remove it from his body. She aches when his fingers pull out of her, his lips leaving her neck so he can toss his shirt into a corner on the floor. She feels him tugging at her underwear, revealing her heat to him as he pulls the clothing passed her ankle.

She pushes at his hips, his jeans falling from his waist as his knee presses against the back of her thigh and she feels his biceps bulge beneath her fingertips. He pushes his hips into hers, more like a grind as he rubs his chest against hers, and she can't help the noise that escapes from her lips. Her palms skate down his arms as he pushes his jeans and boxer-briefs down his legs and kicks them to the end of the bed somewhere around his jacket.

His hands clutch hers, fingers entwining like he just needs to feel someone beside him, and she lets him because she still believes that she could fall for anyone other than Henry. His breathing is ragged, hurried like he just needs to feel someone else's body against his, and that's why she doesn't really mind that he seems to skip the rest of foreplay as his knees push her legs apart and he slides into her.

His cock throbs inside of her for a moment, like he's letting her adjust to his size as if she doesn't remember what he feels like, and he grasps her hand in his. She thinks his knuckles have to be turning white, turning into shades that are genuinely unhealthy for his skin, but she forgets all about it when his lips touch hers again. He nips at the corners of her mouth and meets her tongue with a collision that rattles her bones, makes her shake when he thrusts into her.

He thrusts again, making his name fall off of her lips as she arches her body to meet his. He lifts their entwined hands above her head, pushing them hard into mattress as her nails dig into the back of his hand, and she can feel herself beginning to breathe hard. She rips her lips from his as he continues to thrust and his tongue swirls against the hollows of her throat.

She bites her bottom lip to keep quiet, to hear the squeak of the mattress with every time he pounds into her. Her legs wrap around his waist making the angle which he hits her at change. She can feel herself getting close, hear the words falling from her lips like she has no control. His teeth grate at her skin, bites at her collarbone as he swirls his tongue against her skin and sucks lightly like he just wants her head to spin.

Her suddenly free hand finds the back of his neck, and she hears a quiet moan echo off of the walls at the feel of his fingertips skating over her erect nipple and follows a trail. His hand slides between them, presses into her bundle of nerves until she can't even remember his name, let alone anyone else's. He thrusts faster, until she can't hold back anymore and she cries out his name.

She slightly squirms as he keeps thrusting, feels herself orgasm again, wonders if he can feel her muscles contracting around him. He groans, clenches his teeth as he releases into her, breathes heavily like he just ran for 10 miles. He disentangles his fingers from her wetness, drops kisses against her skin like he's trying to make it into something that maybe it shouldn't be.

His lips cover hers, sloppy kisses mimicked between them as his fingers creep over her ribcage. It's gentle, his kiss, light nipping and smooth swoops with his tongue like he's trying to draw her in. She almost doesn't even notice her nails dig into his back and leave red marks against his skin.

Pagers start to go off and they both fly into panic for very different reasons. He pulls out of her when she pushes against his shoulder, lips breaking and leaving the exchange of moisture on the other's lips. It seems like a disarray of body parts and scattered clothing as they each search for their respectively pagers. She finds hers first, sees _911_ flash across the screen before she reads Henry's room number.

Her heart stops, drops to the pits of her stomach, and she wonders why no one had tried to call her. She sees him find his clothes out of the corner of her eye and it springs her into action, reminds her that she needs to get dressed as well. She finds her panties somewhere near the foot of the bed and thinks this would be so much easier to do with a light on, so much easier to find scattered clothes in a dark room.

Finally, she pulls her jacket up her arms, taking what seems like forever to find all of her clothes and put them on in what was actually minutes or close to seconds. When she looks up, he's already dressed with his keys in hand, his eyes urging her to pick up the pace because he's already on his toes. Their pagers light up again and they both take off into a run, leaving almost everything behind in a rush.

She doesn't have her bag, left her keys and phone behind somewhere with her brain - the only words exchanged being "the baby?"

They digress to gentle head tilts as she steps off of the elevator on a floor ahead of the NICU, almost like she's assuring him that she'll stop by later to check the progress. But she doesn't even know if that's true, doesn't know that she'll be able to leave Henry's side no matter how good of a distraction Mark may have served as. That was then; this is now.

There are nurses, doctors, pouring in and out of Henry's room and she picks up her pace. She can hear the heels of her shoes echo on the linoleum as her fingers shakily grasp the door frame. She rounds the corner, gets a peek into the room of the paddles on his chest and shocking him back to life. His body recoils off of the bed and she feels her knees go weak.

"Cristina?" She finally says, getting her resident's attention with a shaky voice. She swallows in an attempt to remind herself that he doesn't mean anything, that she isn't falling for him, that he's only her husband on paper. "What the hell happened?"

"Coded," she briefs as though he's just another patient. She scowls, feels her jaw tense at her resident's carelessness and all she wants to do scream at her. "The nurse at the desk tried to call you 45 minutes ago. We're going to call it."

"No," she automatically responds. Owen looks up with narrowed eyes, warning her that she's crossing a line. For the first time, she knows he isn't talking about Cristina but he's talking about her attachment to her husband, the patient - the attachment to the patient. "Push another round of epi."

"Teddy," Owen growls, "we've already done it all. There's nothing else that can be done. I'm calling it. The time of death is 21:49."

"Owen, you can't do this," she hears herself plea. She swallows, finds the courage to step forward like she's trying to command the room, but she goes unnoticed. Her hand touches Henry's as everyone parts from him, scattering once the time of death has been called. "Please don't do this, Owen. Please."

"It's too late," he says, "It's been done."

She pretends not to hear his pen glide across the papers as he signs the time of death, signs Henry off into the hands of the morgue. She can't understand - he isn't even cold yet. As a doctor, she never knew it could be this difficult to be on the receiving end, to receive the news that someone has passed, to know that she isn't going to see him smirk anymore. All she knows right now is that Owen Hunt is a cold hearted son of a bitch.

She swallows, wipes at the tears that are threatening to fall but haven't dared to yet, and takes a step back. All she can think is that when her husband was dying, she was distracting herself so she didn't have to think about his existence, with another man deep inside of her. She releases a breath, nods her head and turns on her heel to leave Henry's lifeless body.

She can't watch anymore, can't see him be taken away.

She lingers in the doorway, glances at him over her shoulder and lightly shakes her head. She feels her stomach lurch, the bile rising in her esophagus, and she takes off towards the bathroom. She barely makes it to the toilet, the contents of her stomach retching forward and it leaves her breathless. She flushes the toilet, falls back against the stall to regain her strength.

When she can finally breathe again, she pushes herself to her feet and washes her hands, splashes her face in an attempt to keep the tears from pricking the corners of her eyes. She leaves the bathroom, doesn't look back at Henry's room because she isn't sure that she can bear to. She can't even be in the hospital anymore, but she isn't sure that she can leave - that she can be alone with herself.

She finds herself back at the NICU, gazing at Mark in a pair of blue scrubs and a pink gown while he sits at his daughter's side. She knows he won't be able to take his eyes off of her now, isn't sure she'd have the heart to ask anymore. She pulls a pink gown on, steps into the NICU and listens for the door to close behind her before she progresses into the room. Her hand lightly touches his shoulder to get his attention; she isn't sure anything else would release him from his reverie.

"How is she?"

"She's good," he whispers back, "had a fall back, but nothing major. How was your emergency?"

"Fine," she lies.

He glances back at her and she can feel the tears pricking the corners of her eyes again, maybe even a tear slides down her cheek. He spots a chair in the corner and pulls it up beside him, looking at her expectantly like she should sit; she takes up his offer because it's better than going to any empty house that can swallow her whole and leave her to think about death - she's seen plenty. She sits down in the chair, her shoulder touching his as she pulls her leg up into the chair, and she's a bit surprised when he slides his hand between her legs to rest on her knee.

She can't help herself when she welcomes the interaction, the human touch, and she hugs his arm as she rests her head on his shoulder; she can't remember when exactly she falls asleep.

Nothing is the same and everything is different.

* * *

><p>She drunkenly knocks on his door without preconceived knowledge that it is nearly 2am, leaning heavily against the doorframe to keep from toppling over. She lost count of her consumption somewhere between a beer and a SoCo and lime and she knows that it's a bad mix of alcohol but she could never really determine the levels that she can handle. She feels numb, not of sane mind, but it somehow leads her to standing in front of Mark's apartment like she won't remember this in the morning.<p>

(Her husband's body sits in the morgue for 3 days before she finally gives them an answer on what to do with it. She can't look at - the frigid corpse that is mainly veins and doesn't really resemble Henry anymore - so she hides away in supply closets, empty on call rooms, and sometimes the NICU where she pretends to fawn over baby Sofia with the rest of the staff. The next day, she gets handed an urn quite insensitively and feels clausterphobic with it in her presence.)

He barely has the door all of the way open and his eyes can't even tell through his sleep driven haze who is actually at his door before her lips crush into his. The kisses are sloppy, maybe have too much saliva, but she feels his lips curl into his teeth and thinks that her mouth is aching from the contact. Her lips were mostly numb before they found his and she considers that it could all be in her head.

(She tucks Henry's ashes in the corner of the closet in the guest bedroom because she doesn't really know what else to do with his remains. It isn't like they'd envisioned a life together, discussed wills and how they wanted to spend their after life. She doesn't think she can give him a funeral that he deserves, doesn't know who to invite or who could give him the perfect eulogy so she just resolves to a quick cremation and tucking him away so she doesn't have to look at the urn.)

She feels her teeth stutter at his bottom lip and thinks she can taste blood but she can't exactly determine whose. She hears the door slam closed behind her and the door knob graze her hip as her back collides with the thick wood, his tongue flitting against hers so quickly that it feels like a featherlight touch. She feels his fingers slip beneath the lapels of her jacket and everything graced over her shoulders seems to crack into the floor in a heap of material.

(She finds an untouched bottle of whiskey above her fridge and realizes that she can't recall when she acquired it. It had to be somewhere between telling Owen she loved him and wishing to unring the bell, but she knew it was before Mark or Andrew or Henry and that's when she feels a tear pinch the corner of her eye. She blinks to clear it, to relieve the pain, but it turns into a dull blur covering her vision.)

Her fingers entangle in his hair, a little on the long side compared to usual but she attributes it to the baby and spending every free moment asleep and she kind of likes that her fingers can find a firm grasp in the salt and pepper strands. She appreciates that he doesn't seem to ask questions, doesn't turn her away, just kisses back with such ferver like he wasn't sleeping. Her palms flatten out against his chest and trace the outline of his muscles, a distraction.

(She can't keep feeling suffocated, grabs her keys and evades the walls surrounding her like her house is what she can call a big, fucking, black hole. She's bitter and not about the fact that instead of being at the hospital she was fucking Mark and the aftermath is that Sofia lives while Henry dies. That doesn't make her hate, that just makes her indifferent and unable to celebrate such things as life or love when all she feels is guilt.)

She shouldn't return to the scene of the crime, that much she knows, but the way Mark makes her forget she's human and makes such horrible mistakes renders her further into consumption. She thinks she's ripping apart at the seems from the inside out and she doesn't have a clue as to when it'll rip far enough apart to reach the outside. All she knows is that his lips slide across her cheek leaving a trail of moisture and she forgets that she may have left her front door unlocked.

(She shutters when the wind chill skates down her neck and she thinks the cold halls of betrayal should just leave her alone but she keeps coming back for more like she just doesn't get it. She passes by Mark in the hallway and pretends not to feel his fingertips grasp for her arm while the words dangle on his tongue like he can't spit his damn sentence out. Finally, she looks at him and drags a tired hand through her hair.

"You lied," he says bluntly.)

She feels his hands slide down her sides and her drunken gaze meets his tired eyes. She can see herself reflecting in his eyes and it scares her a little bit what she sees, scares her that he doesn't look away and instead just stares back. He parts his lips carefully, his tongue sliding over them as he tries to find his voice.

"I didn't think you were coming over tonight," he says hoarsely.

(She doesn't really explain anything, just nods bashfully as she wraps her arms around her middle and finds the first opportunity to exit. He tells her that she can talk to him if she needs to, but doesn't let him drag her off to the NICU just excuses herself the moment she sees a twinkle in his eye and his smile touch the corners. She goes home and tosses and turns for hours before she falls asleep, wakes up at 4am and goes for a jog in the pitch black darkness.)

"I couldn't stay away," she embellishes. She normally silences words with kisses, typically doesn't give into the conversation factor minus the occasional slip, but she's feeling a little chatty in addition to the throb between her legs. She swallows, his fingers finding her skin exposed to night air somewhere near her collar bone. "I had to see you."

(He catches her in the hallway on more than one occasion, starts rattling off vitals and progress for Sofia even though Arizona keeps her up to date. She finds his happiness a bit endearing and she buys into it a few times before her mind drifts off to Henry and the realism of what it was that she's yet to define. Instead, she stares at Mark and nods her head as he rambles about tiny fists while her eyes seems to trace his lips like she's scoping him out; she wonders if maybe she is - she realizes it's the first time she hasn't thought about Henry since she was with Mark last.)

She sees a small smile tug at the corners of his lips as he leans forward, touching his lips to hers as the back of his hand scratches at her skin. She wonders if he suspects her words, thinks that she may be saying more than usualy, but by the look on his face he seems to buy into them. She feels his tongue slip between her slightly parted lips and she leans into him, her breasts flattening against his chest.

(She waits for him in the lobby after work, thinks maybe she can catch him on the way home but he seems to never really come. Until she feels his hand on her shoulder as he leans down to look her in the face and she realizes that she must have fallen asleep. He smiles a little, tilts his head, and doesn't really say anything about anything important - she appreciates the silence, absently runs her hand through her hair like she has legitimate bed head.

"Want some company?" She asks, a bit begrudgingly because the words are falling out of her mouth.)

She feels his hands slide around to her back, fingers pressing into her spine as his tongue twists along hers and she thinks that by now he probably knows how many teeth she has in her mouth because he's counted them all. She gets distracted by the way his fingers find the hem of her shirt, the plum cashmere sweater she found on sale the week before on her day off when she just couldn't sit at home anymore, and the pads of his fingers skate against the sensitive spot just above her waistline.

(She isn't sure who kisses who first, but there's a bottle of wine missing between them and she thinks it's safe to bet she drinks most of it. Somewhere between him whipping out his cell phone and showing her pictures of baby Sofia and her pretending to smile as she nods along, she finds that she much rather enjoys the not talking more than she likes the talking. She isn't sure how they end up with their legs entangled between his sheets, but when she comes off of her elated state of orgasm she excuses herself before she can hear him object.)

She feels his teeth nip at the corner of her lips and her knees go a little week, but his fingers flex as he catches her body with his own. His lips find her neck, tongue swirls against her skin as he pushes a hand into her hair. She can feel the wood of the door against the exposed skin on her back again and she isn't sure she can keep standing.

("What was with last night?" He asks in the hallway of the hospital.

She can hear her shoes squeak on the linoleum as she comes to a halt, his fingers twisting together rather than catching her by the arm. She stutters a little as she tries to come up with a way to explain herself, flails as she drags her hand through her blonde hair and brushes the strands out of her face. She smiles a little bit because she can't really explain it, doesn't even know where to start.

So instead she says: "We'll see.")

The pads of his fingers press into her roots at the back of her head as he swoops all of her hair over her shoulder. She loops her leg around his, the heel of her boot pressing into back of his bare thigh and she kind of expects him to hiss into her shoulder but he never does. His hand slides back down her front and he pushes his fingers into her ass to lift her.

(He seems satisfied with her answer as his pager goes off and he tells her that he'll see her later. She goes on about her day, only occasionally lingering in doorways like they're about to swallow her whole. The thing about memories is that she doesn't really have any, mostly feels guilty about the memories she could have. She goes home that night, ignores phone calls and text messages like she has something of importance.

She tries to forget that Henry's ashes are in the closet down the hallway; the only way to do that is to think of someone else.)

Her shoulder ram into the door as he pins her between himself and the wood, her legs wrapping around his waist. She wonders how he could have so much energy and strength to do this in the middle of the night after a day of surgeries and looking after a four month old, but she doesn't question him - she never questions. He releases a low grunt into her skin as he moves her off of the wall and her fingers tug on his t-shirt.

(She's in front of his door again, assuming he isn't being a full-time parent, and she knocks with a shaky fist. When she asks if she wants to talk, she simply says she isn't ready and he gets the message. He always gets the message. Just kisses her until her clothes are in a pile and she almost forgets that Henry ever existed.)

He pushes her against the island counter and she pulls at his shirt as he uses the counter to brace her, his arms eagerly help her make his cotton clothing a small pile in the kitchen floor. He smirks as her eyes skate over his chest, fingers tracing the creases between muscles and she thinks he's intrigued by how she still drools over him like it's the first time. She knows the pattern is deadly, knows that she'll have to talk eventually but she isn't sure she can pull herself away from him anymore.

(She doesn't stay, doesn't call or answer his interrogating text messages the next day, just carries on like it doesn't matter either way. During the day, her mind wonders to things that she'd rather not think about like the realities she can't help when she wants to just avoid. At night, she becomes a misery and finds the best way to distract herself is to throw herself at Mark - doesn't bother to think how desperate she looks.

She's still tied to wifely duties like Henry's apartment, his networth, and informing his family; it's been two weeks and she still can't bring herself to do it.)

She feels his fingertips skate along her skin, familiar and brilliant in the darkness like he knows where every crevice on her body is; it's oddly refreshing, nice that she can just go to him and he can wordlessly make it all go away, but it also makes her uneasy to acknowdlege. Not that she doesn't know him in the physical sense but she doesn't think about it much, wonders if she really ever let herself watch him if she'd actually notice things. She can feel his breath creep along her skin and it makes her shudder beneath his featherlight touches and the warmth of his skin.

"You want to talk?" He ventures.

She merely shakes her head, covers his lips with her own like that's the way she tells her secrets.

(If he's talking to other women, she doesn't notice but she doubts that he's attempted to do anything other than brag about the growing bundle of joy. She hears progress from Arizona, knows that she has a name now and can squeeze her hands into little fists, but she never asks him because she's only after him for one thing. She hates herself, but she'll feel numb soon enough - be left with a shell that only resembles what she once was.

He smirks sometimes when she shows up at his door after everyone else in the building falls asleep but before they wake. He slams her against walls, makes the mattress rattle, and grumbles incoherent words as he leaves her so tired that the moment she gets home she can't do anything other than pass out. Just the way she likes it, wordless but loud.)

She feels his lips respond and she appreciates that he doesn't push her to talk, that even though she isn't ready he waits around for it. Sometimes, she thinks she looks at him and can feel him imagining things she can't even talk about - she doesn't like it but she doesn't say anything because words still aren't permitted. She catches him sometimes kissing her like he loves her; she doesn't say anything, just lets it pass by like she doesn't notice.

Her fingertips sweep across his forehead in a grand gesture of acknowldgement that she hears him but she just isn't ready to comply.

("You busy?" He asks in random intervals. He passes her in hallways and offers her grins like he's expecting her to respond - sometimes she gives him a tug at the corner of her lips as she brushes hair behind her ear, a kind of peace offering. On this particular day, he idles somewhere between nervous and ballsy.

"Yes, very," she answers dryly.

"You don't have a second?"

She briefly glances up at him from her work, her eyes not even lingering long enough to inspect his gaze, "no."

"It'll be quick," he insists. She thinks she can feel people looking. She's losing interest in the overall effect of his eyes probing her.

"I'm not doing this here.")

His fingers slide down her legs, wrap around the heels of her boots and pulls at them until she hears them collide with the floor. She arches her body into his as her own fingers find his shoulder blades, palms pressing into his skin with a heated scrape and fervor that makes him lean his chest into hers. She feels his teeth grind into hers as his hand slides back up her leg. She kicks off her other shoe, listening for the thud to echo throughout the silent apartment.

She can feel his erection pressing against her inner thigh through the thin material of his boxer-briefs and she thinks he makes it so easy to get him naked. She hears herself mutter a quick 'thank you' that's mostly muffled by his lips. He pulls back, pushes his fingers into her hair as his chest rises and falls with the rush.

"What was that?" He asks, face contorting and nose scrunched.

("Stop walking away," he yells after her. He's bundled up in his coat and she's hugging herself tightly to keep the cold winds from whipping against her exposed skin. She wishes she didn't hear him or that she could tune him out, but she's had a rough day and relies on the relief being with him brings. "I don't understand what's going on."

His hand clasps her wrist and they're hidden in the darkness, slightly exposed by the moonlight, and she tries not to step away from him. She purses her lips together as he steps into her space and she almost welcomes the warmth he brings. She shivers a little, subconsciously bringing him closer; his toe taps against hers when he steps closer, his hip brushing against hers.

"We'll get there," she repeats for the thousandth time in the last month. He nods, seemingly accepting her answer, and pushes his fingers into the small of her back to guide her in the direction of his apartment. He doesn't ask if she wants to come. She doesn't tell him that she doesn't want to.

Her clothes are a puddle on his bedroom floor and she's like putty in his hands, but she doesn't linger once it's over. She never asks if he'd wanted dinner and he'd never told her otherwise.)

She juts out her tongue a bit as she quirks her eyebrow and loops her fingers through the waistband of his boxer-briefs before she tugs them down. She opts to showing him that she's thankful for his clothing choice rather than repeating herself. She takes him in her grasp, her fingers wrapping around his cock the way they have been many times before, and she smirks when his eyes widen a bit. His fingers tug at her shirt, somewhere at the hem of her v-neck t-shirt that she's caught him appreciating every moment he can get away with throughout the whole day; she's pretended not to notice.

(She shows up at his apartment closer to 10pm than normal but she kind of likes how he's expecting her arrival even though she didn't give any inclination that she'd show. She briefly wonders if this is how he is every night, patiently waiting in his kitchen like he's watching the front door to see if she'll show. She thinks he wants her to stay but she doesn't give him the chance to ask, just mutters that it's the fourth night in a row and she's exhausted as she dresses.

He asks her to stay but it falls on deaf ears. The sixth week in a row and she can see it wearing on him that he just wants her to stay but she can't find it inside of herself to give him his unspoken wants. She sees a dejected look on his face as she glances at him over her shoulder on the way out of his bedroom.

It's the first time she's looked on her way out; she lingers at the front door and realizes she doesn't want to go home - she does anyway.)

"Oh yeah? You like that?" He asks with a smirk as her gaze shifts to his hard on, and she can hear herself giggle a little like its the first time they've been in this position. His fingers trail down her cleavage, nails leaving the slightest of red marks between her breasts, and she can feel his breathing against her skin as he leans down - tongue swirling where his hands just were, teeth scraping at the exposed skin that is the lumps of her chest, and his hand sliding around to the clasp of her bra. His fingers squeeze and twist and the next thing she knows her breasts are bouncing in his face. He grins, breathes out, "daddy likey."

He's taken to calling himself 'daddy' more; she finds it kind of endearing.

(It's the first night she thinks about Mark instead of Henry because she can't help the guilt she has over the look he had on his face. She tosses and turns before she gives up at 3am for a cup of coffee; she thinks it's safe to say she isn't getting any sleep, retires to the back porch where she can watch the thunderstorm brewing in the sky. The coffee warms her hands but the rest of her shakes from the cold. She tries not to revel in the way he seems to only want her, the way he finds her in the cafeteria at lunch, and how he always has dinner that she never bothers to eat.

She doesn't really know how much she eats anymore.)

His fingers trail to the button of her jeans, offering a grin as he kneels down until the task is eye level. She's intrigued by his performance, pushes her palms into the corner of the counter to lift herself up as he pulls her pants down her legs. He pushes her panties aside, dips his tongue inside of her like she should have seen it coming but she doesn't so she inhales deeply in response. She moans and leans back on her hands, bracing herself as she locks her elbows to keep from making a disaster of the counter.

("Please eat," he practically begs the moment he opens the door. She lightly presses her hand against his chest and offers him a chaste kiss that he gladly takes from her. She still feels the guilt so she gives him a glimpse of what could be if only she could let it. "I'm so tired of eating alone."

"I can't remember the last time I ate," she admits.

And she truly can't, she isn't even sure it's been in the last 24 hours. She pushes her food around mostly, manages to get a few bites down but nothing that leaves her stuffed - she doesn't have an appetite anyway. She dresses in silence, takes a little bit longer so he can soak her in, and gives him a kiss before she leaves.

He seems satisfied.)

His fingers push into her, twists as his fingertips brush her ridged walls, and she feels his tongue push against her clit. She shudders as he breathes against the wet warmth between her legs, feeling teased when he quits touching her and peels her panties from her body. The material scratches at her inner thighs and her hand flies to his neck, nails digging into his skin as she pulls his lips up to hers.

She feels his cold hand press into her back as he gathers her in his arms, naked bodies melding together when he lifts her from the counter.

("Sofia gets to come home," he says giddily.

She really doesn't want to have a conversation with him, tries to steer clear of his seductive grins that make his eyes sparkle as he talks about the baby. She fails to avoid him because he always seems to know where she is before she's actually there and she's reminded that she probably won't get to see him anymore every time that he corners her. She forces a smile onto her face and nods, lifting her gaze from the chart in front of her.

She closes the chart, puts it back into its place; "Arizona told me."

"It doesn't change anything," he attempts to clarify.

She shifts a little in her stance with eyes still on her. It makes her swallow as she pushes her fingertips in her hair, brushes the blonde strands from her eyes as she tries to come up with an excuse to flee the scene. Finally, she says, "I have to go.")

She has the pattern down by now; he's starting to get Sofia one night a week so her mommies get a break, but other than that he's alone at night. Sometimes she calls, mostly just shows up because he's expecting her. She lets him feed her dinner, eats the food the best she can, straddles him when she can, goes home afterwards. She's given in to conversation, but it's never about anything more than surgery and Sofia - two topics she can handle.

He leans her back against the cold sheets, always leading her like he just wants her to stay a little while, linger a little bit more. She shivers, lifts her body to meet his because he's been teasing her, hovering over her for far too long, and crushes her lips against his. She can feel the tender spots on her lips from where his kisses leave bruises, the cracks in her lips from her biting them all day, but the way his cock hovers over her opening almost makes her beg.

(He leaves the door unlocked now, awaiting her arrival so he can just go to bed in case she doesn't show. She finds the doorknob like it's the entrance to a secret passage even though it's hiding in plain sight, and it almost turns her on just thinking of what goes on behind closed doors. He slips into the darkness of his apartment, spotting his silhouette lying on his stomach in the middle of his bed.

Her clothes are scattered on the floor by the time she makes it to his bed and she straddles him. He rouses when her hands slide up his back and when he rolls over he gives her a grunt of approval at her nakedness. That night she rides him until he begs her to let him breathe. She dresses as he drifts back to sleep.

They don't ever speak the rules, but they both know them well by now.)

He slides his thick penis into her after what seems like forever, and she releases a moan at the contact while he lets her adjust to his size. He mutters some words into her skin that resemble feelings and she keeps on pretending that she doesn't have any, but at least she isn't thinking about Henry anymore. He kisses her softer, thrusts slower, and for a moment she thinks he's trying to make love to her. She doesn't let the sentiment stand out for long, but she doesn't try to guide him in a different direction.

His hands find hers, fingers entwine as she feels her breasts bounce against his chest when she finally meets his thrusts with her own.

("Stay. Talk to me," he requests before she can get very far.

She looks at him for a moment, wonders why he's trying to break the rules now after they've been working for three and a half months - working through her husband dying and his baby coming home from the hospital.

"About what? What would you like to talk about?" She sees the sheets bunch at his waist, wishes she wasn't standing naked and exposed to him.

"I don't know, anything," he pleads, "just don't go."

"Why shouldn't I? What am I supposed to expect - to have a parental role in Sofia's life, play house and ignore the realities of what's going on?"

"Maybe," he answers sincerely, "why don't you stay and find out?"

She doesn't. She gets dressed as quickly as she can and kisses him before she leaves like he'd never asked her to stay. She hears him slam back onto the bed before she closes the front door; she hesitates like she never has before.)

He grunts and groans as breaks their kiss, his breath heavy on her skin as he circles his hips. She giggle quietly in the bellows of her throat, breath catching as he drops open mouthed kisses against her lips. She knows what he's doing but her heart tells her not to stop him; for the first time, she lets her heart do the leading.

She feels herself climax and growls into his shoulder, and he keeps thrusting slowly until he follows behind. She listens for his breathing to even out as he releases their entwined hands, his eyes never leaving hers. She waits for him to roll off of her before she makes her next move; he doesn't. He swallows, smirks a little as his fingertips drag along her skin.

"We didn't just inadvertently make a baby, did we?" He jokes. She shakes her a little, not exactly sure what she's hoping for. He keeps his hips pressed into hers, traces her face like he can't look away and it leaves her unsettled. "Stay, please, just for tonight."

"And what good will that do?" She asks.

"It means neither one of us has to be lonely in the morning," he reasons.

Surprising them both, she agrees.

It's been four months and he still has to ask her to stay. Usually, her answer is no - simply no, with no room for questions as she leans down and gives him a lingering kiss before getting dressed. It had taken a lot of coaxing, insane amounts of begging, for her to finally say yes; he thinks he may have grasped to her all night.

He peels his eyes open to find himself in bed alone, his arm slung over the opposite side of the bed. He pushes his fingers into his tear ducts before rolling onto his back and scrubbing at his face. She's a stealthy one, he thinks, considering how many times he had woken up just to see if she was still there.

The smell of her lingers in his sheets - it drives him crazy at night.

He pushes himself upright in the bed and sees the smallest shred of light coming from the bathroom. He thinks he hears the shower running; he thinks his mind is betraying him because he wants her to stay so badly, wants them to be something when she doesn't. He gets out of bed to see if she's really still there or if it's just a jedi mind trick.

He pushes the bathroom door open and is relieved.

"I was wondering when you were going to get up," she says from under the shower water. He grins at her, his hair sticking up from every direction on his head. She leans to the side and he pretends that he can't be distracted by her lack of clothes. "There's room in here for one more."

He isn't even sure her sentence is completely out of her mouth before he's pushing his boxer-briefs down his legs and kicking them into the corner.

He steps into the shower behind her, hissing a bit when the water comes into contact with his skin because the water is so hot. When he flings his head back to get the water out of his eyes and finally opens them, he's surprised to see her facing him with a suggestive smile. He forgets sometimes the joyous occasions of sleepovers, especially lately because he hasn't been able to get her to stay until now.

His teeth are showing from the smile on his face when her lips crush into his. His hands slide around to her back and trace the outline of her bare skin and she nearly jumps into his arms as the light touch causes her to shiver against him. She slides her arms around his neck, her hands clasping at the nape of it, causing her stout nipples to rub against his chest. His dick reacts, rubs against her inner thigh as it hardens.

His hand slides up her front, the pads of his fingers gearing for nipples and cleavage as his lips drag against her skin on the assault to her neck. He grunts as her fingers flutter over his stomach, teasing him as his teeth nip at her skin, and his hand pushes her hair over her shoulder. The back of his hand hovers over her skin, so close she can feel the heat coming off of his palm and shaky fingertips.

He clasps her hand in his, threads their fingers together like he's trying to make it more than she's let it be; he thinks he might be distracting her long enough to make a difference.

His fingers press into the back of her thigh as he presses her into the glass wall and slips into her all in one fluid motion. She inhales deeply and he smirks a little as he lifts their entwined hands above their heads, into the glass. He hears a chuckle elicit from the hollows of her throat before it turns into a gentle moan when he grinds his hips against hers.

He lets his mouth hover over hers as he thrusts so that he can see her eyes roll, and he has to admit he's a little more turned on by her evil grin than he should be. He wipes the grin right off of her face when he rolls his hips against hers. He presses his lips against hers and twists his tongue around hers.

"Arizona took Sofia to the park and I need some clothing-" Callie stops mid-sentence with one dress on and another in her hand, Mark's lips ripping away from Teddy's. The water continues to fall from the showerhead as it seems to hit him in the eye when they both shift their gazes to the pleasantly surprised intruder. Callie swallows a tad bit uncomfortably, "well, this is new. I did not see this coming."

"Oh," he replies, his heart colliding into his stomach. He hesitantly disengages his dick out of his...whatever he's calling her, and loosens his grasp on the back of her thigh. His hand is still clasped with hers, but it's sliding down the shower wall as his gaze shifts from the mother of his child to the blonde and back. "You know Teddy."

"Yes," Callie says, wide eyed, "yes, I see that."

"Can we," Mark motions between himself and the woman in the shower with him, letting the rest of his sentence hang in the air.

"Oh, right! Of course!"

Teddy laughs quietly as the bathroom door closes behind Callie and Mark turns the water off. He lifts an eyebrow at her as he drags his hands through his hair while she pushes open the shower door and grabs a towel from the towel bar to dry off. He smiles because she's smiling and he's greatly amused that the situation doesn't piss her off like it normally would other women.

"Callie just saw you naked," he muses, "shouldn't you be-"

"Embarrassed? You seem to forget, baby, I was in the Army - I showered with many women in my day," she reminds him. She hands him the towel and he can't help his hand playfully flying into her bare ass. She playfully narrows her eyes at him and he grins at her in return, reaching out and sweeping his thumb over her smooth skin in a final attempt to tease her. "And that was not a ploy to turn you on, much to your dismay."

"That doesn't mean it didn't work," he smirks.

He wraps the towel around his waist as she pulls his robe up her shoulders. He steps close enough that the droplets of water on his chest linger on her arm and she flattens her hand out against his chest to push him away. He's never been very good at following directions, so his fingertips press into her backside and bring her closer to press his lips against hers.

"I'm still here," Callie yells as she beats on the door.

Mark outwardly groans and then mumbles, "yeah yeah."

He grins playfully and turns on his heel to go face the warden, his fingertips lingering on Teddy's form. With the feel of her fingernails sliding over his skin as she takes his lead, he hears her slightly laugh from behind him and it makes him glare at the door for the interruption. Her warm fingers make him shiver when they skate down his spine and disappear from his skin as he pulls open the door.

"Should I wear the - you know what? Forget it," Callie trails off as she sees the blonde brush passed her to look for her scattered clothes around the living room, "I interrupted."

"No, really," Teddy insists, her eyes meeting Mark's over Callie's shoulder and they share a smirk as she tucks her hair behind her ear, "we were just finished."

"You were hardly finished," Callie replies.

She turns on her heel, the hem of her blue dress floating in the air as she does, and heads towards the front door.

"Hey, Callie?" Teddy says; Callie turns quickly to look at Teddy, "wear the black one. It's popping but also slimming."

Callie smiles a little and is out the door almost like she was never present. He wonders when she's going to give up the jig and return where they left off, but she hasn't looked up from her search for her clothes. Finally, she gives in to his eyes boring into her and looks up with a slight smile.

"Stop looking at me like that," she commands. His fingers pull at the belt tied around her waist and snakes into the robe. His fingertips graze her torso on their path to her center as his cock throbs against her ass, and her eyes momentarily drift closed - "Mark, I'm serious."

"Stop looking at you like what? Like I've seen you naked? I was looking at you like that just a few minutes ago - I was doing more than looking at you like that just a few minutes ago," he tells her. She sighs, her lips parted as her tongue paints them with moisture, and she attempts to put thinking distance between them. His fingertips fall to his side and he pretends that the distance doesn't make him ache a little bit. "Oh, I see. This is because Callie saw us."

"Don't try to read anything into it, Mark," she refutes, "it isn't like that."

"Like hell it isn't. Someone saw us and that makes this real, that makes this something you have to actually acknowledge and I'm not sure you can handle that," he says. He keeps her from stepping away anymore, grasps her wrist like he can't take it anymore. He yanks her towards him, presses her against the couch for a reason even he can't understand. "I'm like your dirty little secret and, you know what, at first I _did_ get off on that a little bit. But now, it's time to open your goddamn eyes because this is killing me."

"I can't," she mutters. Her breath trails over his lips and he thinks he hears her whimper, but he's afraid that if he lets go of her then she's going to leave him completely. That's something he isn't sure that he can handle just yet. "I'm not ready. I told you that."

"That was months ago," he venomously whispers. His hand finds her skin, slips between their bodies and smooths over her torso like he can sway her. His eyes trace her face and he briefly wonders what she's doing with her free hands; he's taken months of this, months of him wanting something with her and her not being ready yet. "Please, I need you to be."

"I can't," she says again. He thinks it's like a broken record, her excuses stuck on a vinyl and the needle wearing thin. She would have felt guilty at please a few months ago, but Henry died and she just can't anymore. She lightly shakes her head, "I really can't."

"You never even tried," he finally says, letting her go and moving away from her.

"Stop, Mark. Just please stop," she begs. She grabs for him, her fingers press into his skin leaving a white outline on his flesh while her nails leave moon shapes etched into his skin. His feet stop moving, his body stiffens because he can't handle her begging just like she can't seem to handle his. She swallows, "please."

"I can't, Teddy, I can't stop just like you can't start."

"I can't," she repeats like a broken record, again.

"Can't or won't?" He asks. His eyes narrow at hers when they lock and he pretends that he doesn't see her tearfilled gaze so that he can actually think straight. He pulls her hands from him, her nails scratching his skin and leaving red marks along his hips. "Or am I just somebody you want to use?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she spats. He watches her with furrowed eyebrows when she drops the robe to the floor. He isn't stupid enough to not notice what she's doing, not to know that she's just trying to torment him if not one last time. "You keep trying to make something out of nothing."

"That's how you see it," he observes. His fingers twist, curl around one another as he watches her tuck her hair behind her ear mid-search for her panties. Finally, he gives in and points onto the floor, somewhere near Sofia's swing and he makes a mental note to thoroughly wipe it down. "If this is nothing to you, I can't do this anymore."

"Don't," she pleas as he walks back in the direction of his bedroom, "please don't walk away."

He can hear the strain in voice, the one that makes him think he could hear a tear slide down her cheek and soak the floor at her feet in the silence.

"You can't do that," he tells her. He releases a breath because he knows he's been defeated, knows that maybe it's taken four months but the tears are starting to cloud her vision and if he couldn't do nothing all that time, he knew that he sure as hell couldn't do nothing now. He crosses the room, feet padding against the faux wood flooring, and slides his arms around her naked torso. "You can't start crying now. You can't start crying when I pick me."

"I'm not," she insists.

She offers him a small, reassuring smile like that's going to convince him that she isn't truly crying and he knows the woman by now, really he does. His thumb sweeps at the tear sliding down her cheek, he can feel his chest brush against her bare breasts, and when the pad of his thumb traces her jaw line she bursts into sobs. Her body racks against his and he slides his fingers into her wet tresses as he squeezes her tightly.

"I can't," she croaks, "I can't be with you. I can't be who you want me to be. I can't do any of it."

"I'm not ask-"

"You are. I was someone's wife, and my husband died, Mark. He died and I can't let you in now because I'm going to lose you," she says, shaking her head violently. He presses his fingers into her hips as she pulls away from him like this has to end now. He sputters words that don't quite fall off of his tongue as he grips her tightly by the waist; he can't just let her get away that easily. She cries out, "I can't let you love me, and now that someone knows this is real, it's too real for me."

"You've been here four nights a week, if not more, for the last four months," he points out, "what the hell are you talking about, it's too real for you? You aren't going to lose me - I want something with you. You don't seem to understand that I like having you around, that you're funny on days when you actually stop to talk and you make me smile just because I can't help it when I'm around you. What will make you see that?"

She doesn't answer, he isn't even sure that she could fathom one, he just watches her fingertips yank at the towel around his waist as she leans forward to press her lips into his. He's a little surprised when her hand wraps around his erection and fingers trickle to the tip. He can't think straight, doesn't think he could put space between them if he wanted to. Instead, he lets his hands find her hips and push her backwards.

Her back hits the wall with a thud beside his bedroom door and her fingers dig into his skin. He rips his lips from hers to groan, to feel her fingers dragging down his shoulder blade and her nails scratching at his skin. He lifts her against the wall, her legs wrapping around his waist and his tongue presses against her collar bone. She giggles quietly, her head rolls back into the wall.

He slips into her with ease, lets his grasp on her relent a little so he slams into her until he can feel her hip bones grind against his. She gasps and moans, practically at the same time, and he can't help the smirk sliding over his features as her palms press into his pectoral muscles. Her fingers tap against his ribs as he feels her heated breath skate over his skin, and for a moment he thinks that maybe he can just pin her against the wall and make her notice him.

His body stutters as he feels one of her hands grip the back of his head and he leans against her, her nipples rubbing against his chest. His teeth nip at her skin as he absently bites on her neck, sucking until he knows a mark will be there later for sure, and her moans are falling from her lips so rapidly that he wonders if she even notices. He pulls back, sees her eyes closed before he lets his gaze shift to her neck and he grins a little when he already sees a bruise forming.

He grinds his hips against hers making her cry out as he drags his fingertips along the bruise forming on her neck, and he knows that when she sees it she's going to flip shit but he can't help being proud of the mark. Her breath hitches in her throat as his hand press against the wall and he presses his chest against hers, her lips hovering over his ear. He thrusts upward making a moan collide with his ear and he can't help the smirk form on his lips, her fingernails pressing into his skin.

His skin feels like she's ripped it open and the air stings his wounds. He pushes his thumbs into her hips in response, feeling her writhe beneath his palms. He slides his hand between them, his fingers tapping against her bundle of nerves and it makes her arch into him. He smiles as her fingers press into the back of his neck, white marks outlining her touch, and leans forward to cover her lips with his own.

His tongue pushes into hers, the distinct taste of vanilla and chocolate attacking his tastebuds as he begins a rhythm of thrusting himself further into her. He feels her mutter incoherent words into his mouth; he pulls out of her, his tip lingering at her opening before he pushes back into her, the ridges of her walls massaging his throbbing cock. She moans into his mouth, and whispers that she's close to orgasm when she nips at the corner of his mouth.

His fingers twist around her clit making her body shake against him, her breasts bouncing between them. He growls as he thrusts again, feeling the heat rise from his stomach to his chest as he feels himself climax. Her body slumps against his and he finds the strength in his legs to carry into the bedroom. He pulls out of her as he leans her back onto the bed, falling beside her breathlessly.

He laughs a little as he reaches over to touch her extended arm, but she swallows a thick film of saliva that makes him pull his fingers into a fist. He tilts his head a little as she seems to distance herself, retract her limbs as though she didn't want to feel his body heat radiating from his skin. He purses his lips as she pushes herself to her feet.

"Wait," he interrupts, "where are you going?"

She tucks a stand of hair behind her ear as she glances at him over her shoulder, "I have to go."

He watches her disappear from his room, take minutes to get dressed before his front door slams shut. He takes it as his queue to get dressed and go to work, hoping that he'll run into her somewhere in the hallways. He doesn't.

She doesn't answer phone calls.

He pulls into her driveway, relieved to see that her car is there and the living room lights are on. He shuts the vehicle door behind him quietly, so as not to disturb any possibly sleeping dogs (he knows, let sleeping dogs lie) in the neighborhood. He idles on the sidewalk to the front door to watch the headlights of his SUV click off before proceeding to the front door.

He balls his hand into a fist and slams it against her front door, making sure to knock loud to get her attention no matter what she could be doing. Standing in the darkness in front of her house, he realizes hw eerie the silence of the darkness is and feels like he's about to be swallowed whole. He hasn't spent much time at her house, just knows where it is from the rare midnight call.

He slams his fist again, concern flaring up because she hasn't answered yet. He wraps his hand around the doorknob, twisting it open and prompting him to narrow his eyes in confusion. As the door swings open, hits the wall behind it, he doesn't understand why she hasn't answered him but steps in anyway.

"Teddy!" He calls out for her while shutting the door behind him, lingering in the doorway awaiting her answer. He poises his hands on his hips, grasp squeezing at his waist when she doesn't say anything. He etches out onto the carpet and briefly manages to capture a glimpse of her hair waving in the wind on the back porch; sliding the door open, he half smiles and says, "Teddy, you really shouldn't leave the front door unlocked out here. You never know who's going to come in."

He slides the glass closed behind him and tucks his keys away into his jacket pocket, sitting down beside her on the porch swing. He glances at her holding a steaming cup of something in her hand with her eyes just looking out across her backyard, shot somewhere in the forest behind the creek; he silently appreciates the screened in back porch so the bugs don't eat him alive. It doesn't cross his mind that he hasn't heard her respond to anything he's said.

"Did you eat?" He shifts his gaze back to her, watching her jaw for some kind of muscles moving to indicate a response. She barely moves at all that he can be sure, thinks she maybe taps a fingertip against the ceramic of her mug. His concern grows and he reaches out to lightly touch her arm in an attempt to get her attention. "Teddy?"

He can hear his breathing seem to echo in the interrupted silence, the sound of grasshoppers and frogs and wild animals in the distance, but he can seem to get her to connect. He wonders how long she's been like this, unavailable and unwilling to communicate with anyone. He grasps her face in his hands, forces her to look at him but he isn't even sure that she sees him.

"Teddy? What's the matter? I've been calling you for two hours and you left your front door unlocked," he recounts, "you have to be careful - you never know who's going to come in."

"Clearly," she finally says. Her hand starts shaking and he swallows, letting go of her face and wrapping his fingers around her mug. He takes it from her, nearly spills it on his crotch as the liquid rocks to the edges, and turns to set the glass on the patio table. With a hoarse voice she adds, "you didn't have to come."

"Of course I did," he says, confused, "I was serious about what I said today."

She doesn't say anything, just slowly turns her swollen eyes towards him. He purses his lips together, wills her to say something - anything. But she doesn't, not yet, just stares at him with tear glazed eyes.

"People lie, Mark. I don't need you to just waltz in here and try to be my hero," she finally says. He watches as her hands seems to fold at her chest, like she's trying to hide inside of herself. He notices that her sleeves are pulled down and she's clutching the ends in her palms, only her fingers showing. "Trust me. Nobody wins in the end."

She pushes to her feet, practically stomps inside. He isn't expecting her sudden movement, can barely keep up with her when his shoes slide on the concrete, and he reaches out to stop her but isn't able to. She steps just outside of his reach; he doesn't like it, just slides the door closed behind them and locks it for good measure.

"What the hell are you talking about? I don't want to win," he says, eyes narrowing and nose scrunching up in confusion. He watches her fiddle with remotes on the coffee table and he knows she's just trying to distract herself because she typically just gets right down to business, doesn't play around with distractions - not when he's with her anyway. He briefly thinks he might just be her distraction. "I don't want to win anything. I just want for this to stop being meaningless to you because you, you mean something to me."

"Reality check, Mark," she glares, "fucking me until you can't even see straight doesn't constitute meaning something."

"Don't be like that. Don't belittle what we have like it's my fault that you won't let me show you that you mean anything to me," he retorts. He can feel his hands shake at his sides, his fingertips grasping for hems of clothing to keep them busy. He pretends not to notice her cross her arms in front of her chest and jut her hip out. "I asked over and over again for you to just stay within arms reach, just talk to me, and all I got was backed into a corner because I knew if I didn't give you what you wanted I wouldn't get you anymore. That isn't fair to either one of us. Damn the luck, the shit that says you want me but only if it's on your terms. I think your terms are bullshit."

"Shut up," she growls, "it isn't like that. You make me sound like a vixen when you're the one leaving trashy marks on me like you're claiming me."

"Maybe you are, Teddy. Did you ever think that? Did you ever think that maybe you aren't getting through your thick skull that maybe I want you for more than just your vagina? If I wanted sex, I could get that anywhere. There are women in bars, on street corners, hell, even patients will just give it up if I snap my fingers. But, you? No, you'd give it up to me every night if I just growled a little in you ear, but getting you to stay and talk afterwards is the part that I have to give my left nut for."

"You want to talk?" She growls, nearly screams. He recoils a bit because he isn't expecting her to just raise her voice like that, like she's fed up with him. He feels like she only likes his mouth for two reasons, and neither one of them being to talk. He steps hard towards her to show that he isn't backing down. "You're coming to the wrong place for conversation, love."

"If I recall, I'm not the only one coming," he snarls. He smirks a little when she glares at him, thinking that maybe he's gotten some kind of a rise out of her. He sees her muscles in her neck strain as she tightens her jaw and he knows that if he doesn't keep talking then he isn't going to get another word in edgewise. "And that's something I've never heard you complain about, but, then again, you haven't really been saying much of anything beyond dirty words."

"Fuck off, Mark."

"Yes, baby, that's what I'm talking about. You can deny, deny, deny all that you want but you're the one opening your legs while I'm telling you to stay awhile. You have a problem - you don't smile unless it's suggestively, you don't laugh unless it's when I'm deep inside you, and you don't talk unless it's about coming," he says. He gets closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off of her body and he can't help but think that she's getting turned on by it all. He presses his chest into her arm, his fingernails digging into his palms, and releases a breath for it to skate over her neck; he follows with a whisper, "If I remember correctly, 'come, baby, come'."

He watches her swallow, like she's getting rid of a lump forming in her throat, and he kind of thinks that he's being harsh. He's always been shown tough love, never had the heart to show someone else, but the woman has gone crazy - has closed herself down until she's just a body. And that's all she'll let anyone else be to her.

His lifts his hand, slow and steady, touches her jaw line with his fingertips as she seems to release the tension at his touch. Her eyes flutter closed as he tilts his head, presses his lips just below her ear - the spot that makes her laugh because it tickles, makes her roll her head on her shoulders because she can't help but smile. He feels her body lean into his chest and it prompts his hand to slide down her neck.

"I just-" he says before she swallows his words, cutting him off by covering his mouth with hers.

She turns her body towards his, the pads of his fingers pressing into her skin, and feels her fingers tug at his jacket. His tongue flits at her slightly parted lips, willing her to give him just a little more access. His tongue touches hers as he feels her fingers thread into his hair.

He releases a breath as she pulls back just long enough to make a trail of kisses to the hollows of his throat, tongue swirling over his adam's apple. He can hear his breath penetrate the air as his hand slides down her front, thumb circling the outline of her breast, and brushing over her skin as his hand peels back the waistband of her pants to slip inside. He pushes his fingertips against her, his erection growing in his pants.

"No," he mutters. He pushes her away from him, her fingers tapping against his ribcage as his own fingers pressed into his shoulder. He avoids her eyes, afraid to look at her and see that he's hurting her. "You can't distract me like you did this morning. I can't be your little toy anymore. I love you, but I can't do this anymore. If you're not capable of love me..."

He feels her fingertips slide into the crook of his arm and pull at him but he can't look back, so instead rips his arm from her grasp.

He leaves, knows he has to or he'll cave like he did earlier that day. He lingers at her front door, wonders if he should turn around and go back in there to tell her he didn't mean it, but knows that he can't just keep feeling like he doesn't mean anything. He knows he can't linger, knows that if he does then he won't make it, so he rushes to his car - jumps inside but doesn't bother to crank the engine.

Twenty minutes later, he sees her rushing out of her house like there's an emergency somewhere, keys in hand and dressed in a pair of tight jeans. He absently licks his lips as his eyes follow her but he jumps back in his seat when she slams her fist against his window. He pushes the car door open and jumps out, pushing it closed behind him.

"Get the hell off of my property, Mark," she growls.

"Stop," he replies, "just don't."

He reaches out, touches her arm, and watches her eyes narrow at him for even having the balls to be within feet of her. He pretends not to notice, not to let it hurt his feelings that she can't even let him touch her. She charges back towards the front door and he has to take long strides to keep up, lunging out and tugging her to him.

His lips meet hers, his fingertips lightly trailing over her skin as they touch her cheek. She shudders against him, her body falling against his, and he thinks that maybe he's getting her attention. He feels her arms slide around his neck and her fingers pull him closer until they have to part to breathe.

"Don't just go," she whispers against his lips. He can't help the small smile that slides across his lips but he quirks an eyebrow at her for good measure. She half steps back, the heels of her shoes hitting the door, and she grasps his hand. "My dead husband's ashes are in the closet and I can't think straight. Let's go to your apartment."

"Okay," he agrees, eyebrows furrowed. He's a bit confused by her complete change in manner, but he isn't going to walk away when she's basically begging him, telling him that she needs him. He nods slightly in affirmation, her eyes glazed over and tears threatening to fall. "Okay, do you have everything you need?"

"Yes," she immediately answers. She doesn't have anything beyond her purse and whatever's in it and he automatically narrows his eyes in question, but doesn't bother to voice it because she's near tears like she just wants to be whisked away. He supposes that maybe she does, maybe she just wants to be taken away far away from the quiet house with her husband's ashes buried in the back of her closet. "It'll just be for tonight."

"It's okay," he says, grabbing her arms.

He looks at her carefully, pulls her forwards in his grasp as he steps backwards like he's leading her away. He releases her as her pace becomes quicker than his and she gets to his car first, practically inside before his hand even touches the door handle. He gets in, almost immediately starts the engine for what can be considered a mostly silent car ride that involves her staring out the window and pulling her knees to her chest.

He throws his car into park, a bit confused by the silence but afraid to interrupt it for fear that she'll break down into tears again. He opts to silently follow her lead up the stairs to his apartment, unlocking it so she can linger in the doorway until he guides her inside. With his hand on the small of her back, she takes a weary step forward like she's a little bit scared of the smaller space - the one bedroom, one bathroom apartment littered with baby toys when everything had once had an order.

"Do you want anything to eat? Drink?" He asks, barely audible. He clears his throat, wondering if he'll be able to elicit an answer out of her. When she lightly shakes her head, he accepts it because he guesses it's better than nothing. "You can't ignore your health."

"Don't," she says sternly; she quickly corrects her tone, "please, don't tell me what to do."

"I'm not, at least, I'm not trying to. I was merely suggesting that we get a little bite," he replies calmly. He drops his keys onto the counter, pulling his coat off and draping it on the back of the couch. She disappears into the bedroom and he can't help but follow. "I'm only saying that if you want to be here, I want you here."

"Okay," she acknowledges. He watches her crawl into his bed clad in her jeans and low cut v-neck t-shirt, coat and shoes abandoned in the living room while he apparently wasn't looking, amazed how she looks both comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time. He pushes his toes into his heel and kicks his shoe off, tucking it beneath the bed, before switching and doing the same to the other foot. He drops his pants to the floor and climbs over her, slipping beneath the sheets and laying beside her. "You don't have to-"

"Shut up," he says with a slight smile evident in his voice, "I want to."

He's a little surprised when she rolls over, her body pressing into his, and he thinks he can feel her fingertips etch between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his boxer-briefs. They stay resting there, don't stray anywhere, just linger against his skin like she's just looking for the warmth he puts off. He feels her wide eyes on him, but doesn't say anything just let's her be.

* * *

><p>Every morning she feels the bed stir when he wakes up, peel his warm arms from her body, and leave her with an emptiness that aches within her throughout the day unless she can pull him away from busy hallways and random emergencies. She sends him to her house for whatever she might need, telling him to get her clothes and toiletries, simply muttering a "please, I can't go back there now" and he gives in with one look at her face. She's still afraid to admit that she needs him, but they carry on their lives like they live in his one bedroom apartment.<p>

He smiles at her, lets her pick girly movies to watch over _ESPN_ without saying a word, lets his fingertips linger over hers, and the part that kills her a little is that he shows her so much love that she can't show him back. She hasn't initiated sex since she started staying with him, doesn't know how to do anything but exist around him because she's trying to learn how to exist with him. After two weeks of work, food, television, sleep, repeat mixed with rare conversations, the routine is forming.

("If you don't want me here, I can go," she says randomly as she flips through the channels.

"Why would you even say that? I want you here," he replies. She can see him drop his _Sports Illustrated_ into his lap out of the corner of her and she stops switching the channels. She feels like she should give up the remote as she realizes her shit is strewn about his apartment stationed somewhere between his things and Sofia's. "It's nice having you here. I don't feel lonely now that you're hanging around."

"You felt lonely before?" She questions. The television scrolls game stats at the bottom and she realizes she stopped on some sports station that he hasn't really watched since he dragged her to his apartment.

"The sex was good, don't get me wrong, I was just exhausted and didn't feel like we could really coexist. I didn't know how to approach you, I still don't, but I'm not as afraid to try anymore," he answers. She sees him smile a little, can feel his body heat as her leg touches his where they sit on the couch, and she realizes that she hasn't really tried to touch him beyond appendages brushing while they sit on the couch and bodies touching while lying in bed. "I know what I want and I'm just trying to let you get your footing until you can figure out what you want."

She doesn't pry, just leaves it on _ESPN_ in case he wants to watch and mutters that she's going to bed.)

She can feel his eyes on her when she performs meticulous tasks and it drives her crazy but reassures her at the same time. She thinks about Henry less, only on occasion when she considers going back to her house alone, and realizes that whatever would have come out of that relationship she wouldn't have been taken care of. When she watches Sofia she starts think that Henry died so that she could live and it makes her appreciate his sacrifice; she wants to treasure Mark's daughter, but thinks it isn't her place.

She starts to forget about the life she could have had if Henry hadn't died and starts to think about the life she could have with Mark. She never says anything, just lets him go on about his business not really giving a fuck. Except she knows he does, just never tells her because he's still learning too.

(She breaks down into tears and hides herself away in an on call room, she doesn't know how, but someone sends Mark after her. She wonders how they knew, wonders who it was that seems to know to send him when she breaks out in tears. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her into his chest, fingers sliding through her hair in an attempt to keep the strands of hair from sticking to her cheeks

"Shh, I've got you," he whispers in her ear. She can feel his palm smooth over her back as he makes soothing circles and she isn't sure they've been at this point, the point that she feels actual hatred for life and he has to hold her while she cries. He breathes into her ear again and it makes her falter a little, her knees pulled up between them. He asks softly, "what the hell happened?"

"I don't know," she says, lightly shaking her head and breathing in deep, "I just couldn't take it anymore. Everything's getting to me today."

"What is it?" He tries again.

"It's you, it's my patients, the residents," she breathes, "it's Henry. It's the whole damn day. Normally if I feel empty, I can just pull you aside to feel your arms around me and I feel better, but today, I'm just so sure that you aren't getting out of me what you want."

"Well, that isn't true," he replies; he pulls back a little, searches her face, pushes her hair out of her eyes, "I could use a little more you, to be honest."

"You have a baby, Mark."

"So," he mutters with a grin, "that means I can't have a girlfriend?")

She falls asleep at night with his arm draped over her waist and she thinks she participates in his version of coexisting; she eats dinner with Callie and Arizona when they eat as a family and holds Sofia like the rest of them, offers gentle smiles when everyone's watching, but feels more exhausted at the end of the day because of it. Sometimes he slides his hand into her shirt, lets his fingers reminesce on her skin like that's where they belong. She kind of likes the contact, reminds her that she isn't alone.

She kisses him but when he tries to push her shirt up her torso she chickens out. It isn't that she doesn't know his intentions, it's that it makes her a little nervous to know that when they have sex he's looking her in the eye. She didn't want it to be about making love and staking claim, she wanted it to be about objectives and distractions.

("You won't let me touch you," he observes.

He's been kissing her, with tongue, and she's been kissing him back, but now that his hand is lingering at her waist and making its way up her torso she's began trying to keep his hands busy.

"What? No, that isn't true," she disagrees. She arches an eyebrow in the darkness as his thumb sweeps over her hip and she thinks that he might be right. They haven't had sex in three weeks and the hassle is starting to be the way she fends him off - she doesn't really want to anymore. She swallows, "I just, are you ready for it to be about love?"

"It was never about anything else," he answers honestly.

She lets him make love to her; she isn't sure anymore she doesn't make love to him in return.)

What it turns into is the way they seem to domesticate, make their lives entwine without ever saying so. Rather than going along with it, she pretends it isn't like that, acknowledges her house key on her key ring disposed somewhere in the back of her unused keys that she never takes off of the keychain. The key to his apartment lingers in the front, chalked up to wear and tear because it's the most used. She just ignores the way the metal crunches in the lock as the shininess chips away.

Her body arches into his touch more and she aches when he's away like a part of her is missing because he isn't by her side. It sounds cliche and sickening, but she can't really function anymore without him to guide her. She's still an empty shell, forgetting to say much but at least she's quit running.

She's adopted values that were never really hers.

("Shit," she mutters.

She doesn't mean to curse, doesn't mean for her chest to feel so goddamn tight, but she's sitting at the kitchen island with a glass of wine in front of her that she knows she really shouldn't drink. When he finally walks in, her head is in her hands and she's feeling an inability to breathe, to relax, to really focus on anything but the way her head feels heavier. He half smiles at her, bags under his eyes from his extended hours at the hospital like he's the only person who can do sutures.

"Uh oh," he grumbles, "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," she answers, tiredly. She pushes the warm glass of wine in his direction and his eyebrows furrow in confusion. His fingers pinch the stem of the glass as he purses his lips, silently questioning her what for. She explains, "celebrating. Congratulations."

"What are we celebrating?"

He twists his jaw and she takes a moment to appreciate his muscles under his gray t-shirt now that it's warm enough outside that he doesn't wear a jacket.

"I'm pregnant. Yay," she feigns.

He doesn't allow himself to be happy, just drinks the glass of wine for the both of them.)

She thinks that somewhere beneath the silver lining is the point in all of this. She notices things more like when the clock changes to 8pm on certain nights of the week and he switches the channel to _USA_, that he only shaves on Fridays unless she makes some comment about his facial hair rubbing her raw, and that he only uses his left hand when he puts his fingers between her legs. It takes her 2 weeks to figure out that he shaves his face on Fridays so he can rub Sofia's cheek against his without hurting her.

They're all very meaningless, she knows, but they're a part of a routine she's finally feeling part of.

("Are you serious about us?"

It takes another 3 weeks after he finds out she's pregnant to ask her that; it takes her about 3 seconds to think about her answer. The hesitance doesn't go unnoticed, but he tightens his lips and keeps his opinions to himself.

"Yes," she says.

The space between them isn't like it used to be. His fingers automatically settle on her thigh and her hand seeks his, but must of their conversations are wordless. She thinks he doesn't notice the way she looks at him and how she can feel herself smiling more often - she doesn't understand why he would ask her a question like that.

"Do you even want this baby?" He doesn't look at her and for a moment she thinks he doesn't have the balls to.

"Yes," she repeats. Her fingers find his cheek as she tries to get him to look at her; she wonders if he even cares to. She sees him swallow before he shifts a tear-filled gaze to her and she realizes that he's actually scared she'd say no. "I don't think I can be a good wife or a good mother. I think I'm too fucked up to feel happiness, too fucked up to feel responsible for someone else, but I'm starting to think that if I can just keep living and breathing then I can do anything."

"But that doesn't answer the question," he says. His eyes leave hers and she thinks that he's disappointed. The way she looks at it, she can't disappoint him, he's all that she has left. "Do you want this baby?"

"Yes," she insists, "I want this baby, as long as you're here."

And it's the closest she's gotten to 'I love you' but he looks satisfied with her words.)

She isn't domesticated to the point that she cooks dinners, doesn't read books about babies or children, and only cleans when she starts getting grossed out by the filth. She is in no way ready to have a baby, not in her state of mind, and she takes this into serious consideration despite the way she doesn't really talk about. The first child patient that she loses nearly kills her and she knows she has to keep the baby, not that there was ever really any question.

She hears him talk to her stomach sometimes when he thinks she's asleep; she finds it cute so she doesn't have the heart to stop him.

("Should we get married?"

She asks him on a random afternoon that they both happen to not be at the hospital, lounging on his couch in a pair of shorts and a v-neck t-shirt while he has on track pants and that's it, and she finds it extremely difficult to take her eyes off of his bare chest. He lifts his eyes to hers and she sees the corners of his lips tug upward a little as he pushes his hand up her leg before dragging it back down. Of course he has to rub her leg while she's attempting an actual conversation.

"Is that," he swallows, "is that something you'd want to do?"

"I don't know," she shrugs, "I would want to eventually, maybe even soonish, but I don't know what you want."

"I've never been married before," he says playfully; she thinks sometimes he forgets she's been married - sometimes she forgets. He raps his fingers against her ankle, making him smirk at him for just a moment. "But it's something to think about."

"What does that mean?"

"It means," he starts. He shifts on the couch, hovers over as he slides the length of his body over hers, and drops a light kiss against her lips. She feels the moisture from his slightly parted lips linger against hers and she thinks that they're starting to feel natural. He continues, "that I would like to be married to you.")

It isn't that she doesn't want kids, that she hasn't dreamed of having children - it's that sometimes she thinks about her dead husband stowed away in the closet in the guest bedroom at her house, that sometimes she remembers she still can't go home. She thinks a baby can fit into her life somewhere, she just doesn't know where. She still thinks she's at his apartment because it's comfortable, he'll hold her when she needs him in addition to him being easy on the eyes, but that doesn't mean it's meaningless.

He doesn't let it be anymore.

She's a little turned on by the way he puts his foot down, by the way that he forces her to stick around when all she wants to do is run. She feels his fingers press into her arm and she catches herself trying to evade discussions and promises him she'll do better. It takes time, but he's a patient man. Neither one of them bring up the marriage discussion again; she doesn't know what to think.

("We're thinking about getting married," he says casually to Callie and Arizona over dinner about a week after the discussion. The two exchange glances and she can almost read the thoughts going through their heads just by their facial expressions, she isn't surprised. He doesn't catch on, slowly looks up from his food when the room remains silent. He starts chewing hit bite, "what'd I do?"

"Marriage shouldn't be taken lightly," Arizona disapproves.

She squirms in her seat, wondering if she'd said something in the first place only because of the baby or if it was something else. Callie smiles apologetically while also nodding her head in agreement; he's oblivious to the estrogen in the room. She tries not to laugh at his chosen ignorance.

"It isn't like that," he finally says. He's surprising, listens even when he doesn't look like he is, and she smirks a little even though she feels panicked. He swallows his food and pushes his elbows onto the table, leaning forward like it's the only way he'll get his point across. "What? We're adults. If we wanna be married we can be married - we're having a baby, why shouldn't we be married?"

And the room is silent as it absorbs the shocking news when there's only a baby hitting it's 7th week in her womb. Next thing that happens is a shouting match in his apartment when she storms out without touching her food. He waits to ask her what the hell her problem is until the door is slammed behind them like it's less incriminating.

"You. You are my biggest problem right now, telling them about things we've barely even discussed," she growls.

"Well, maybe we should discuss it, don't you think?" He challenges. She doesn't say anything, just watches him bounce on his toes like an impatient little kids and she wonders if he thinks he's won. He smirks and takes a half step towards her. "Come on, Teddy, is the baby the only reason you'd want to marry me, or did you have another reason?"

"Because I don't trust you," she replies angrily, crossing her arms in front of her chest. He stops bouncing, tilts back on his heels, as her words sink in. She doesn't mean it the way that the words fell out of her mouth, but she can't do anything but elaborate from here. "I don't trust love. Marrying you is the only way I know you won't leave."

"You still don't get it, do you? I'm not an idiot. I don't need you to have the baby for me to stay with you. I'm with you because I want to be. I've put up with bullshit for almost six months now and it's been all about you. To be honest, I've been okay with that, the problem now is that you just won't let me love you."

"Don't be such a fucking baby," she says. She feels his hand wrap around her wrist before she can walk away. He cups her face in his hands and kisses her; she almost forgets they were sitting at the dinner table.)

She goes back to her house for the first time in two months. How she did it, she isn't sure - hops into a cab, mostly, and her address falls from her lips. She sees her car in the driveway and wonders if it even starts but she pushes that back to the final thing to do. She feels a surge of guilt wash over her at the realization that she's left Henry alone there for two months.

It's the last thing she grabs before she leaves.

("Uh," he gulps as she walks through door and she thinks she knows exactly what he's thinking, "what is that?"

"This is Henry," she answers.

He pushes himself to his feet and hops back, tripping over the coffee table and barely keeping his balance. He pushes himself upright, swallows, "you can't bring that - him, in here."

"Afraid of a little competition?" She teases. He pushes his thumbs into his hips as she carries it around and puts the urn on the kitchen counter. He makes a face and closes the space between them. "Calm down. He's only here until I can contact his sister."

"I don't have a problem with you having his ashes, I just have a problem with his ashes being on the kitchen counter," he pauses, drags a hand through his hair and she takes the opportunity to slide her palms up his chest until her fingers touch his neck. He smiles a little, and she thinks she can see his muscles untense.)

His ashes are gone in two days when she calls Henry's sister to let her know. She can hear his sibling stifle tears as she sniffs and she thinks it's all too family. When she hangs up the phone is when she realizes that she has tears streaming down her face too. Mark doesn't say anything when he comes out of the shower with wet hair and his jeans on, just wraps his arms around her.

She isn't sure if the moisture on his chest is from the shower or her tears, but he brushes them away with his thumb, lightly kisses her lips like he's taking all of the pain away.

It helps. 

epilogue

"Baby, more sleep," she whines. His hand slides beneath her thigh on the side furthest from him and she peels her eyes open at the feel of his fingers pressing into her skin. Her body automatically responds to his, arching into him like she has no control over her own reactions, and she lifts her hand to his shoulder to push him away. She adds, "you never let me sleep."

"Oh, hush," he replies with a laugh. She feels herself being lifted from the mattress as he pulls her on top of him and she can't help the small yet tired laugh that escapes her lips. Her eyes drift to the clock and she narrows her eyes when she sees that it's almost 4am, his hands grazing up her legs to rest on her hips. "My shirt? Again?"

"What? It smells like you," she reasons. She feels his fingertips sneak beneath the hem of the shirt, the pads of his fingers spreading out against her stomach. She tucks her hair behind her ear and grins down at him as she feels his erection against her thigh. "Hmm, already?"

"It's morning," he replies with a shrug, "do you know how hard it is-"

"Yes," she interrupts with a grin, "I really do."

"No," he laughs quietly, "I was going to ask if you know what it's like to sleep next to a beautiful blonde and not be able to touch."

"Oh please," she scoffs, "you get your grabs in. You think I don't feel your dick pressing into my ass while you feel me up at one in the morning?"

"Okay, maybe I do touch a little," he sheepishly admits, "but it's for a good cause."

"A good cause?" She asks with a laugh. His fingers graze her temple as he pushes her hair behind her ear again and she's distinctly aware that his dick is throbbing between her legs with every brief touch. She smirks a little, pushing her hands over his nipples and rubbing his chest just to tease him. "And what good cause is that?"

"Woman, you better stop that," he warns, "or you'll find out what the good cause is sooner than you think."

"Is that a promise?"

He smirks and she feels his index finger glide down the side of her face, piercing blue eyes looking up at her. Her knees tighten at his waist as she leans down, her hair sweeping to one side and creating curtain that tickles the side of his face, and she presses her lips to her jaw line. She thinks she can hear him release an erogenous breath into her ear and she smiles against his skin as his erection digs into the back of her thigh where his fingers were.

"I'm serious," he adds, quirking his eyebrow like he's begging her to challenge him.

"Yes, I can feel how serious you are," she observes. Slowly, she pushes her lips into his thinking that she's probably teased him enough, and she slides her hands down his chest. He kisses her with more ferver, the kind of kisses that imply he's ready to push himself into her, and she feels his tongue circle hers. She disentangles her lips long enough to mutter, "now."

Her fingers slip beneath his boxer-briefs and wrap around his cock, pulling it from the clothing as he yanks at her panties. Somehow, they're off and he's meticulously placing them on the nightstand as she guides him into her center. He groans as her lips slightly part, her cheek rubbing against his 5 c'clock shadow because she's trying not to move until she adjusts to his girth. She rolls her hips, his lips covering hers and his tongue colliding with hers as his fingers dig into her hip bones.

She feels his hips press into hers as he thrusts and she can't help the moan that falls from her mouth; he seems to swallow the noise coming from her as she rolls her hips, knowing she's close. It never takes long for her to climax when he wakes her up at the crack ass of dawn, and she's near that point already. Usually words of foreplay are exchanged more than foreplay actually takes place, and his fingers push up her shirt so they can brush across the lumps of her breasts.

She moans quietly and arches into his touch, feeling the heat rise into her stomach. She releases a breath as he covers her mouth with his hand and he grins in response; she can feel him throbbing inside of her. Her body aches as her muscles tense and he groans at the contact, at the way she feels around him, and it reminds her to suck on his earlobe to make him come faster, harder.

And the way he breathes in her ear makes her orgasm again, like she has no control over the affects he has on her.

"Fuck, baby," he breathes out with a laugh. His fingers slide up her spine as he holds her against him and her legs are starting to ache. She grins and slides her lips along his skin, moisture trailing along his jawbone.

"You just did that," she jests. She briefly slides her nose along his before she drops a chaste kiss against his lips. He laughs quietly again, his fingers mapping circles along her back like he's sketching out a treasure quest. He yawns and she pokes him lightly in the ribs, "you tired?"

"Yes," he smirks, "you wear me out, woman."

"That's my full time job," she replies.

She rolls off of him, trapping his arm beneath her; her fingertips sweep across his slick torso as his palm presses into her back.

"Really? I thought you were a surgeon," he counters with a teasing smile. She smack him in the stomach, causing him to laugh and hug his torso. His laughter dies down and he turns his head to face her. He adds, "and a mother and the best fiancee a guy could ask for."

"Oh, please, you're such a suck up," she says, rolling her eyes. He pushes his hand into her hair, his fingertips toying with the way her roots sit on her head, and she tries not to get distracted by the way he's trying to distract her. "I'm not that easy."

"No one said you were easy," he reasons, nuzzles his nose against hers, "Maybe I just love you, did you think of that?"

"What? Why would I think of that?" She replies sarcastically, her nose scrunching with her question. She laughs playfully and she becomes aware that the diamond from her engagement ring is digging into his ribcage, the gold of the band catching a glint from the moon peeking in the blinds; she leans heavily against him, her leg sliding between his. "Okay, maybe, that could be why you say such nice things."

"It _is_ why I say such things," he says with a smile. He pushes his lips into hers, soft and lingering as his eyes drift closed. His tongue touches hers only briefly as he twists her hair around his fingers, and she feels his hand slide into hers. "It isn't fair for you to tease me like that."

"Oh, fine, you big baby," she says with a laugh; she stops laughing when she sees that his eyes still haven't opened and she sqeezes his hand, "you wake me up for sex and then just go back to sleep - how mean."

"Sleep with me," he says. He rolls towards her.

"Come on, honey, you know I can't go back to sleep once I'm up," she responds. She slides her arm through his, tapping his ribs in an attempt to get him to open his eyes. He slowly peels one eye open and she watches a slightly smirk tug at the corners of his lips before his eyelid slams back shut. "You could stay up with me rather than being a lazy ass and just laying in bed."

"Not just laying, sleeping," he clarifies.

She laughs quietly, lightly pressing her lips against his, and slips out from beneath the sheets. She glances at the clock to see that it's almost 5am now as she gets dressed in some clothes that will keep her from freezing to death. She rolls down the sleeves of his button up dress shirt and wraps her arms around herself as she glances over her shoulder at him lying in the middle of the bed.

She pulls the bedroom door shut behind her and starts her morning routine. First, she peeks into Logan's room through the crack in the door to see him sound asleep in his bed, face down with his arm hanging over the edge. She moves a little further down the hallway and peeks into Sofia's room, bare and pitch black because she's at Callie and Arizona's but she should be in there later that night. She grabs the rail as she descends the stairs, flipping on the lights closest to the kitchen so there's a light glow at the bottom of the stairs and the living room.

She flips the switch on the coffee maker and keeps moving around the kitchen, putting loose dishes into the sink and pulling out clean mugs from the cabinet as the pot starts to fill. He tiredly pads into the kitchen, track pants on but still shirtless like all he wants to do is tease her; he offers her a smile and drags his hand through his hair, nails scratching at the back of his head. She smiles back at him as he comes up behind her, pinning her between the island and himself.

"What's the matter?" She pries.

His hands start on her ass and push around to her torso.

"Nothing," he mumbles as he plants a kiss into the crevice of her neck, "the best part about being in bed left and I couldn't help but follow."

She briefly wonders what his morning routine is, if he checks in on Logan and Sofia before he comes down the stairs like he's accustomed to their lives together.

"You're such a stalker," she replies with a smirk. She hears a small laugh escape from the bellows of her throat when she feels his teeth on her skin like he's grinning. She feels the heat of his body as he pulls her shirt up in her back a little bit to feel her skin against his stomach. "Following me everywhere like I need you to watch me."

"You don't need me to watch you," he says, reaching around her for a mug, "I like watching you. There's a huge difference."

She turns to look at him just in time to see a smug grin behind the lip of the mug.

"When are you going to think about marrying me, finally, by the way?" She challenges.

"I think about marrying you all of the time," he says. He blows at the steam rising off of his coffee and the liquid rattles in the mug, and she smiles as she starts the same task with her coffee. She purses her lips momentarily to urge him to continue explaining himself before she takes a sip. He lightly taps her hip before he takes a drink, adding, "but then I forget that we aren't actually married because it already feels like we are. You know they call you my wife at work?"

"But we aren't married," she reminds him.

"Quit reminding me," he sighs, exaggerated breath lingering behind. She quirks an eyebrow at him as he takes a drink and hisses at the heat burning his mouth. She tries not to smirk in return like he deserves some kind of reprimand. "Yeah, yeah, woman, but I'll marry you. Just say when."

"When," she simply states. She shrugs and takes another sip of her coffee before she sneaks out to the back porch, pulling her legs up into the chair with her.

"Wait a second," he interrupts, poking his head out into the screened in back porch, "you can't just drop a bomb like that and leave."

"Like you haven't seen it coming for 4 years," she retorts with a smirk, "you should feel a little prepared."

"We've been engaged for 4 years, I just quit thinking it was going to happen any time soon," he admits. He steps outside even though he doesn't have a shirt on and it's cold this early in the morning; sitting on the back porch and drinking her coffee is usually something she does by herself every morning. She watches him swallow and cuddle the cup of coffee a little closer to his body. "I forget sometimes that you aren't my wife because of this life we have together."

"So you're already my husband - what's the problem with adding a priest and legalizing it?"

"But why now?" He asks, shivering a little.

"Why are you questioning the when? I thought it was what you wanted. Or is living in sin better than being married to me?" She teases. She pushes herself upright, feeling bad at the fact that he keeps shivering, and pushes a hand into his stomach before she loops her finger into the waistband of his pants. She pulls him in the direction of the house and closes the door behind them, setting her mug down on the counter as she pushes him to the arm of the couch. "I don't know what makes me say now. Maybe it's that we have more of a marriage than most people I know. Maybe it's that I'm tired of feeling like I'm not yours anymore when I have to take the ring off to do a surgery. Maybe it's because I'm happy, we're happy, and there's no reason that we shouldn't be married anymore."

"Well, if you don't know, how am I supposed to know?" He asks playfully. She steps between his legs, her arms sliding around his neck, and she tilts her head slightly. She feels the steam from his mug seep into her pores as his fingertips brush against her hip; his eyes linger on hers, a slight smile across his lips. "You aren't going to distract me with sex."

"Oh, please, I don't do that," she refutes, shaking her head as her eyes narrow at him; he looks at her pointedly and she relents. She corrects, "anymore. Okay, sometimes I do but I've never heard you complain."

"Maybe you just weren't listening," he replies evenly.

"I just got sex, why would I want it again?"

"Maybe because you just told me you want me to legally become your husband and you find me irresistible," he answers suggestively.

She chuckles a little. "I think the important thing here is that you are my husband, I just want there to be rings and a priest and Sofia to be a flower girl and Logan to be a ring bearer and you and me, traditionally saying 'I do'."

"I do want to be with you. I do love you. I do promise to take care of you the best way I know how. I do not see myself being without you. How does that work?"

"Just add a priest," she smirks. She lets go of him, leans back, but he catches her by the wrist, her right one where her watch usually is. She tilts her head in question and he just motions her towards him; she lightly presses her lips to his like he requests. "Now go get your son up and get him ready for school."

"Yes, ma'am."

It's halfway passed 5am and she's supposed to be at the hospital by 7, but she isn't entirely sure that she can be. She has to take a shower and she's becoming more pressed for time than she initially thought, but she's glad they've finally figured things out - figured out that she has more of a marriage with him than she'd ever had with Henry, not that she thinks of him often anymore beyond naming her son Logan Henry Sloan, Mark's idea. She thinks things in their life make more sense now that they have unpacked the last box the night before since moving into the house a year and a half ago and she's beginning to wonder how the one box had been holding her back.

It wasn't even remotely important, just had some old memorabilia from their college days that don't really mean anything anymore.

She smacks his ass as he moves off of the arm of the couch, and she grins when he playfully narrows his eyes at her before he hands her his cup of coffee to climb the stairs. The diamond from her engagement ring catches in the light out of the corner of her eye and her lips turn upward as her gaze shifts from him reaching the top of the stairs to eying her ring. She takes his mug into the kitchen and makes sure everything that she needs is together before she runs upstairs to take a shower.

"Hey, buddy," she says to Logan, distracted by his presence. He tiredly walks in, rubbing his eyes like he's up far too soon, and he climbs into a chair. Mark places a bowl in front of him, light on the cereal and light on the milk, and pushes the spoon into his bowl before getting his own cereal. He briefly presses his lips to her cheek as he passes by her in the kitchen, grabbing his coffee before he sits at the table. "Mommy and daddy finally decided to get married."

"When?" Logan asks. He's quiet, still tired, but crunching his food.

"Soon," she answers, "real soon."

She reaches over and drags her hand through his blonde hair, messed up from his pillow and the way he turns all night, before she smiles slightly at him. She eyes the man who will soon be her husband and he smiles widely between bites, before turning his gaze back to their son. Sometimes, she still can't believe that their son is 4 years-old, blonde hair and blue eyes with his father's mannerisms.

"I have to go shower," she interrupts the silence. She leans down and lightly presses her lips to her son's cheek as he continues chewing like he isn't phased by it. She smiles a little at how he's his own person, but knows that he'll hug her extra tight before she leaves for work. Mark leans up to press his lips into hers, swallowing his food before their lips can meet. Her fingers linger on his cheek and she smiles softly as she quietly adds, "come see me."

He nods in affirmation and as she climbs the stairs she hears Logan ask Mark why she's so excited they're finally getting married since they're practically married already; Mark just tells him it's because he gets to wear a ring and everyone will know he belongs to someone.

While she's almost through with her shower, Mark comes in with a smirk on his face at the sight of her completely naked, and she can only imagine what he's thinking. Probably something along the lines of getting to have her naked the next time or how he wants a quickie in an on call room before lunch or during lunch, most likely even after lunch too. She doesn't have it in her to say she'd object because she isn't much of a liar these days.

"I'm almost done," she informs him over the water.

"Okay," he acknowledges, pushing his clothes over his hips. She watches them drop to the floor and he pulls the shower door open to step in. She feels his fingers drag along her waist and she peels her eyes back open to look at him. "Are you hogging all of the water?"

"Feels like you need to take a cold shower anyway," she comments playfully.

"You're probably right," he agrees with a laugh.

He pushes his lips against hers before she can step out and close the door behind her. She reaches for a towel as he steps under the water and she wraps herself in it, tucking the corner in just before Logan comes in. She lightly shakes her head as the little boy steps up on the stool by her sink to brush his teeth, a responsibility that he's recently taken to on his own rather than being reminded constantly.

"You boys have taken over my life," she comments.

"That was the idea," she hears Mark say over the shower.

She just laughs quietly and goes into the bedroom to find a pair of jeans, a long sleeve shirt, and her boots with the heels in the back to wear to the hospital. She waits until Logan exits the bathroom and closes the bedroom door behind him, telling her he'll be downstairs watching cartoons, before she starts getting dressed. She thinks her fiancee rushes with his shower just to watch her get dressed when he comes into the room as she's clasping her bra.

"Missed the show?" He asks.

"Oh, yes, just ended - another showing tonight," she teases. She smirks as he gets his own clothes and she catches that it's almost 6:30am on the digital clock below the television, and her eyes widen in response as she rushes to get dressed. She's already been up for 2 hours and she's losing track of time; some days it's because she's just dragging ass, today it's happiness that leaves her behind. She releases an exaggerated breath which gets his attention. She pulls her shirt on over her head, straightening the torso of it. "I'm going to be late. I gotta go now."

"I'll be there at 8," he reminds her.

She puts her boots on, pulls her hair out of the collar of her shirt, and stands up to kiss him before she leaves. She goes down the stairs, sees Logan falling back to sleep on the couch watching some cartoon and can't help but smile. She listens for Mark at the top of the stairs, buttoning his pants and descending them with his shirt in hand.

"Mommy's leaving, buddy," Mark finally says at the bottom of the stairs. He pulls his sweater on over his head and offers her a lopsided smile as he tugs it down his torso. She lightly shakes her head as Logan runs over and she gives him a tight hug before she leaves. Mark puts his hand on her elbow as she stands back up and Logan goes back to his seat on the coach. He smiles slightly, "I love you."

"Love you, too," she replies automatically, like a habit, and he kisses her. He closes the door behind her and she wonders what the boys do when she leaves just like every other morning she leaves first.

When she gets to work, she catches the elevator with Arizona like she does almost every morning. Arizona, clad in her blue scrubs, smirks at her later arrival and she can only guess what her friend is thinking. Finally, she looks at Arizona's all-knowing and leans back against the elevator wall and lightly shakes her head.

"It isn't what you think," she tells Arizona.

"Right," Arizona acknowledges.

"I'm serious," she insists, "okay, we did, but that's not why I'm late. We're getting married."

"Yeah, you've said that before," Arizona teases. And she has, almost five years ago before Logan was born. Also again two years ago before everything flared up again, all of the hesitation and the moving into the house happened and they just never picked a date. She adds, "so forgive me if I don't seem too thrilled."

"Seriously. I want it - today, tomorrow, next week - soon; I feel like it needs to happen and I want it to be real. I have the marriage, I just want the wedding," she clarifies; she can see Arizona's mouth beginning to open in shock at the sincerity, "We never talk about the when and now we are. I just can't think of any reasons for us not to get married anymore."

"And you had reasons before?"

"Don't look at me like I'm stupid. I mean, I know it sounds stupid because now that I don't have the reasons I think they were stupid, but there just isn't reason not to anymore," she explains with a shrug. She refuses to elaborate, refuses to explain her reasons because she had the hardest time explaining them to Mark, but when she told him he had just said okay and didn't force the topic anymore. She understands how he never pressed the wedding issue, but she'd always quietly hope that he would. The elevator dings on the floor of the attending's lounge and she glances at her best friend to offer her a smile. "Sofia still going to stay with us this weekend?"

"Yep, it's your weekend," Arizona nods, half waves as the elevator doors close shut.

(By the time lunch comes, Mark is pressing himself against her while she's going over some charts that she's handing off to some interns and she can feel exactly what he wants. His dark blue scrubs seem to disappear somewhere around hers and she doesn't know where his end and hers begin. She smirks a little as she gets rid of her last chart, turning slightly to face him as she glances at him over her shoulder.

"You better get that thing out of my ass," she tells him quietly with a smirk.

"It's not even hard," he replies, playfully narrowing his eyes. He grabs her by the wrist and pulls her into his direction, her shoulder touching his chest. He grins and leans towards her a little. He adds quietly, "but it can be."

"I'm sure it can be," she replies.)

Sofia and Logan both pass out before the movie is over, Logan curled up in the chair and Sofia sprawled out on the loveseat, and it isn't even halfway over.

"Baby, will you stop?" She asks him with a slight laugh, pulling her hand from him so he quits twising the gold engagement ring around her finger. She's sometimes amazed that he still pays any attention to it after all these years, makes her wonder how much time he spends actively thinking about it. "I'm going to lose it and we'd both hate that. What's the matter?"

"Nothing," he answers, "just can't wait to be married to you."

"Is that what you've been thinking about?"

"That, and how I don't know what I'd do without you," he admits. His fingers tap the back of the couch as he leans towards her, rubbing his nose against her temple, and it makes a chill skate up her spine. His lips lightly press against her jaw and she realizes that she doesn't know what she'd do without him either. She didn't think she'd ever know what it would feel like to love someone with her whole heart and them love her the same way.

But, she does.


End file.
